


Mischevious Fate

by aislingdoheanta



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Combeferre is an old man, Enjolras is a university Student, Gen, Reincarnated decades apart, i swear this fic ends on a happy/hopeful note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingdoheanta/pseuds/aislingdoheanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU & Reincarnation AU:  It isn't until he's nearing the end of his life that Combeferre finally wanders upon Enjolras and he's determined to make the most of it. </p><p>Written for the Les Mis Reverse Bang (Art #26 by sarlyne)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mischevious Fate

**Author's Note:**

> I will include a link to the amazing artwork as soon as it's posted and I have internet again!

Combeferre had always known this was his second life.

He remembers being a child and telling his family about dying on the barricade with his friends. Even when he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, he knew it was true.

Combeferre’s memories of his other life were sharp, focused. He remembered so much of it. He remembered the heat of the Parisian streets in the summer. The sound of the wind and the river Seine. The stench that followed you around the streets.

He remembered pouring over textbooks by candlelight, staring up at Enjolras who was all fire and energy and passion.

Combeferre remembers his _life_.

He still dreams of his last night on the barricade with his friends. They had been trying to change the world; they had been so sure that they were going to. All the signs had pointed to the changing of the times, a new dawn breaking over the world.

He read about that time in this life. How the June Rebellion—that had been what they were a part of. He’d read how the world had viewed them.  

He’d barely had a chance to live in his past life before he was taken from it. He never intended to allow that to happen a second time.

Combeferre spent most of his childhood reading books on history and remembering his friends. His family hadn’t understood that he was _remembering_ not just fantasizing. After a while, he stopped bringing it up and his parents just assumed he grew out of it.

It was easier that way.

Combeferre always looked for the people he knew everywhere he went. He expected Enjolras or Courfeyrac to be in elementary school with him. Whenever he heard a cane, he’d turn around expecting to see Joly and Bossuet walking toward him arm-in-arm. Once he got to university, he half-expected Jehan to appear in his Literature courses or Bahorel to be at the bar. Every time a pessimistic man spoke out in class Combeferre would think of Grantaire. Every love-sick boy reminded him of Marius. All the workers he interacted with reminded him of Feuilly.

But they were never there.

It saddened him for a while, to know that he was truly alone in this new world. That his friends were not going to be by his side. Yet Combeferre was not going to let that keep him from actually living.

He had been born this time in Massachusetts in the United States. He was the only child to his parents and they loved him as much as he loved them. They didn’t always understand him, but they tried.

They were lovely people and Combeferre felt lucky to have known them. They had died fairly young—his father had a heart attack right after Combeferre started university. His mother hadn’t made it two full years before following his father to the afterlife.

Combeferre hadn’t been upset by that. He’d grieved their loss, but he understood how difficult it was to live when such a big part of your life, your heart, was missing.

The bitter pain of not having Enjolras in this life was constant. It was like he was left out in the freezing blizzard of loneliness after knowing the warmth of Enjolras’ love.

Back then, it might have been hard for his friends to see what they had meant to each other, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t real. They were equals in everything and yet different. It was Enjolras’ passion for the cause that kept reminding Combeferre what they were fighting for, _why_ they continued fighting. He hadn’t been as strong—ruthless as Enjolras had been. He’d always been dedicated, but sometimes the cost weighed on him, but Enjolras was right there, breathing fire and life into him once more.

Combeferre was also the one to keep Enjolras grounded. He was a dreamer who thought himself a realist. It wasn’t that he saw the world as he wanted it to be, but he chose to see the world the way he _dreamed_ it could be. Every action, every thought was directed toward bringing about this new world for the people.

It was the quiet moments though, that he missed the most. The gentle brush of a hand. A chaste kiss to the cheek or brow. The tight grasping of hands. Quiet whispers in the middle of the night.

It hadn’t been only passion with them. It had been quiet and gentle and all-consuming. Combeferre still couldn’t remember when they had actually gotten together back then; it felt like they had just always been together.

That they were always meant to be together.

As much as he missed and longed for Enjolras, he didn’t let that close him off to the possibility of not having another person in his life.

He met Lillian when he was in his last year of graduate school. They had met at a local diner near the campus. Combeferre had gone there to work on some readings and paper writing. Lillian had been his waitress.

It was very clichéd, if Combeferre really stopped to think about it, but she was beautiful and so sweet that he found himself captivated. She had asked him out to dinner one night before he left.

They’d had their first date one week later and were gone for each other. They married very quickly after meeting. Lillian was content to work at the diner because she enjoyed it and it gave her most nights off to spend with Combeferre—when he wasn’t studying for his doctorate to be a professor of History. It was his favorite subject and he specialized in French History.

He graduated and received a job offer from one of the local universities in Connecticut which he was more than happy to accept.

They had a lovely life together and two children:  Freya and Louis. Combeferre wished Enjolras was around when Lillian choose Louis for their son because he would have thrown the biggest tantrum assuming that his son was named after French monarchs.

He hadn’t been. Louis was actually Lillian’s grandfather’s name and she wanted to keep the family tradition going. Freya was a joint name, but one Combeferre found after looking for names with an ‘F’ and a ‘Y’ in them—it had been a small tribute to Courfeyrac.

Their children grew up in a lovely neighborhood and they had a beautiful family home. Louis grew up and wanted to become a Doctor. Freya followed in the academic footprints of her father, only specializing in philosophy.

Louis married a lovely woman named Rebecca and they had three children of their own:  Hannah, Haley, and Henry. Freya and her partner Christie had adopted two children:  Rebecca and Danielle.

Combeferre had always wanted children and he adored being a grandfather. Lillian was excited as well. She was one of the people who had been destined to be a grandparent—she loved spoiling her grandchildren rotten. She’d always sneak them extra treats and goodies, especially when she thought Combeferre wasn’t paying attention.

But time had continued to move and no one was young anymore. All of his grandchildren were now in high school or university. He had retired a few years ago because he wanted to spend more time with Lillian and he didn’t like the constraints of university teaching. He preferred finding groups of people who wanted to learn and he would teach them. It reminded him of all the times back in the Musain.

Lillian had passed away a few years ago. It had been very sudden and thankfully she hadn’t suffered too much. It had taken Combeferre a long time to grieve. His children and grandchildren had visited him constantly and someone always stayed with him over the weekends.

But eventually Combeferre was okay again. He missed Lillian like he missed Enjolras, but he didn’t want that to keep him from living still.

Combeferre decided to sell the family house and move to a smaller apartment near Yale University. He enjoyed being near a campus and surrounded by young people starting to learn. He was able to join a few book clubs and start a few philosophy meetings where a group of people would meet and just have a dialogue.

His family still came to visit him numerous times a month and there wasn’t a day that went by without one of them calling him.

Combeferre was happy. More than that, he was content with his life exactly as it was at the moment.

Naturally that’s when Fate decided to throw him for a loop.  That’s when Combeferre finally saw him. _Enjolras._

Combeferre had believed that he’d ever find him in this life and was okay with that because whatever time Enjolras returned to in this world, he’d do amazing things. They’d always have their time in France centuries ago.

But there he was, walking across the park with his notes balanced in one hand while he tried to make corrections with another. Combeferre was sitting on one of the park benches and just watched him walk toward him. Enjolras mouth moving to read whatever he was writing—he’d done that back then too.

Combeferre wanted to reach out, to stop him, but he wasn’t sure how. What if Enjolras didn’t remember? Combeferre was in his seventies now and didn’t look anything close to what Enjolras might remember.

Just like back then, their connection remained. Suddenly Enjolras looked up and locked eyes with Combeferre. His eyes widened slightly and he froze on the middle of the pathway.

“Combeferre?” Enjolras whispered, his eyes never leaving him.

“Hello, Enjolras.”

* * *

Enjolras had remembered his past life; he just didn’t  _believe_ it.

Well, he had once, long ago. When he was a boy, he’d been convinced that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were waiting for him at a school. That Feuilly was going to move into his neighborhood. He was constantly talking about his friends and how they were waiting for him.

His parents hadn’t liked that sort of talk because he was “too old” for imaginary friends. No matter how much Enjolras tried to tell them that they weren’t imaginary friends, they didn’t listen. The psychiatrist they sent Enjolras to didn’t listen as well.

So Enjolras stopped talking about them. He stopped thinking about them.

He successfully convinced himself that the life he thought he’d lived before was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Those “friends” he thought were waiting somewhere for him were nothing more than his subconscious trying to help him see what he was missing and not be so lonely.

After a while, they stopped passing through his mind.

But they were still there, lurking and waiting for the time that Enjolras would be ready for them again.

It all came roaring back to him when he saw Combeferre sitting on that park bench months ago, looking like he had just been patiently waiting for him. Seeing him sitting there, all the pieces fell together and Enjolras could remember, _truly_ remember all that he had cast aside when he was still a young boy.

His friends, their faces, their mission all came rushing back and he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had a past life, and he remembered it.

He’d asked Combeferre about it that day—the only day in the history of his academic career that he skipped classes just because and not out of illness or a protest or to make a statement.

“Do you remember?” Enjolras had asked softly.

“Of course I do,” Combeferre had said gently. His voice was soft with age, but no less intense. Everyone always said that Enjolras had the voice to mesmerize people, but Combeferre didn’t need to mesmerize. He simply spoke and you followed what he said.

“I…I thought it wasn’t real,” Enjolras admitted.

Combeferre frowned. “I admit that there were times I wondered about the validity of my claims, but I knew in my soul that what I knew was true. Even if it didn’t make sense to others.”

Enjolras had nodded and looked down at his hands. “I gave up on them.”

Combeferre covered his hands gently with one of his own. “You didn’t give up on anyone. You had a life to live, Enjolras. No one can fault you for that. Especially since you’ve never run across anyone else.”

“Have you?” Enjolras asked.

“No,” Combeferre told him. “You’re the first.”

He’s smiled at Enjolras and squeezed his hand before letting go.

They hadn’t talked much more that day, but they took to meeting at the same park every day for the next couple of weeks. Combeferre told him about his life and career while Enjolras told him of his childhood and the future he wanted to have.

In his mind, Enjolras knew that things couldn’t be as they were in this time. They were too far apart, not in sync like they used to be. But for right now, for this life, it was enough.

Combeferre was there to give Enjolras advice and wisdom like he always had been. Enjolras brought back that passion and fire that he’d always had.

Enjolras started tagging along to Combeferre’s groups—except the book club. They had read _Lolita_ and Enjolras had gotten a little carried away with his thoughts on it and scared anyone else from speaking up. Enjolras gracefully backed out of that because he didn’t want to take something away that Combeferre loved.

Enjolras went to his history meetings, his philosophy dialogues. They saw films and read books and talked about everything and nothing. Enjolras stayed at Combeferre’s more than his own apartment because he enjoyed Combeferre’s calming company.

No, it wasn’t the same, but it was good. It was _better._

They still loved each other, even after all those years and time apart. It was easy, it was simple. Neither of them thought of the future because they were so content with the present.

“Do you think we’ll ever find any of the others?” Enjolras asked quietly one night as they sat together at Combeferre’s kitchen table.

Combeferre put down his book and pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

Enjolras remained quiet and stared down at the table where his book was resting.

“I do know that Fate is often cruel and mischievous. If you find any of the other members, it’ll be when you least expect it,” Combeferre said.

“You think so?” Enjolras asked.

“I know so,” Combeferre replied. “I’d given up looked for you, for Courfeyrac, for any of the others and was happy. And then there you were.”

“What do you think the others are doing now?” Enjolras asked.

They delved into a discussion about where they think the others are, what they’re doing. It should have been a sad, intense conversation. But it wasn’t. It was easy and comforting.

Enjolras just wanted his friends to be happy. No matter where they were.

* * *

Combeferre sighed as he watched his family leave the room, giving him and Enjolras a minute. They’d all met last year, sometime shortly after Enjolras returned to him. They hadn’t really known the depth of their connection, but they knew that Enjolras was important to him.

His son had asked him what was going on between them and Combeferre responded, “We’re soulmates, if there is such a term for it. We’ve known each other for lifetimes.”

Louis hadn’t responded for a minute. “I thought you and Mom were soulmates. I thought you loved her.”

“I did love her, Louis,” Combeferre assured him. “I still do. But love is infinite and complex.”

“Love doesn’t mean sex, Louis,” Freya had interrupted angrily. “Love can be romantic or platonic. Sex and love aren’t one and the same.”

The conversation had faded out after that.

The past year had been amazing, intense, and lovely. But the past few weeks had been tough.

Combeferre was dying. He knew it, though no one else wanted to admit it.

His children, his grandchildren kept saying that he was going to be fine; he was going to get better. He’d just smile at them and nod, “Of course I am.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything at all. It had been a strange unspoken rule between them that they never really thought about Combeferre’s age. They just didn’t.

Combeferre didn’t think it was intentional on their part. Enjolras looked at him and saw _Combeferre;_ he didn’t see the aging man he’d become.

His heart ached to have to leave him behind so soon after being reunited, but Fate is a cruel mistress. She wanted him to have a taste, a remembrance for a short while before ripping him away again.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said softly, motioning for the man to come closer.

“Do you need anything?” Enjolras asked, sitting in the chair next to him.

Combeferre nodded. “There’s a collection of letters in my briefcase.” Combeferre pointed to it across the room. “Can you get them for me?”

Enjolras wandered over and pulled them out. He saw them, who they were addressed to and stopped.

“It’s a vain hope, I know,” Combeferre started, “But I need you to take them. Just in case.”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. You keep them. It’ll be better coming from you than from me.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre chided gently. “You know that I’m not going to be alive long enough to meet them.”

Enjolras shook his head and started pacing. “You’re going to be fine. It was just a minor heart attack.”

“True,” Combeferre admitted. “But I’m not going to recover.”

Enjolras winced and stopped walking. He stared back down at his letters. “You have to.”

“If only your will was enough,” Combeferre said softly. “But I’m an old man, Enjolras. My body is weak and doesn’t have the strength in it to fight for much longer.”

Enjolras threw himself down into the chair next to Combeferre’s hospital bed. “I can’t lose you again.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Combeferre said.

“How can this be happening?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre smiled gently. “Fate is a cruel mistress.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything.

“But sometimes she’s accurate. You’re meant to do great things, Enjolras,” Combeferre told him. “You have always been destined for greatness.”

“I failed last time,” Enjolras said sadly. It was another thing they didn’t talk about.

“Perhaps, but you’ll take all you’ve learned and do better this time. The people are more willing to listen this time. Another time, another place; that means a second chance for you to lead the people to true freedom,” Combeferre said.

“But without you?” Enjolras asked.

“I can’t help you the way I did back then, Enjolras.”

“But you could _be_ here!” Enjolras said. “You have always been my rock, Combeferre. How am I supposed to do this if I don’t have you to help steady me?”

“You’re resourceful,” Combeferre said. “You’ll find a way.”

Enjolras looked down at the letters.

“I think you should start that activist group you’ve been thinking about for years,” Combeferre said.

“After you get better.”

“Maybe it’ll be through this group that you’ll meet our other friends. Just like last time,” Combeferre said, ignoring Enjolras’ comment. “And then you can give them my letters.”

“You wrote these before you got here. How long have you known?” Enjolras asked.

“Known that I’m going to die?” Combeferre shook his head. “Death is inevitable. It happens to everyone sadly.”

“But you knew enough to have these written already.”

“I wrote them a couple months ago,” Combeferre admitted. “After finding you, I feared that that the others are out there but that I wouldn’t live to see them. I wanted to find a way to tell them how much they mean to me. Letters, delivered through you, was the way I thought of.”

“What if I don’t find anyone else? What if they don’t remember?” Enjolras asked.

“Then you don’t deliver them. I just want you to have them in case you find someone else, in case they remember like we do.”

Enjolras put the letters in his bag and reached for Combeferre’s hand and held it gently.

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy to have had as much time with you as I have,” Combeferre said.

“Me too.”

“I need you to promise me that you’ll live while I’m gone,” Combeferre said.

Enjolras snorted. “You think I’m just going to waste away in front of a picture of you?”

Combeferre chuckled. “No. I think you’re going to devote yourself to your causes instead.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Enjolras argued.

“No, it’s not. But I want you to have more this time. I want you to have what I had with Lillian—if that’s what you want. I want you to have _more_ than working for a cause. I want you to have people in your life and fun and adventure.

“I don’t want you to die without experiencing life again,” Combeferre admitted quietly.

“I won’t find anyone I love as much as I love you,” Enjolras said.

“I thought so too, but there are other ways to love and be loved,” Combeferre said gently. “I’m not telling you love is the one thing you need to be happy. I just don’t want you to close yourself off from experiencing it and life because you want to focus on your causes.”

“I won’t just put them aside,” Enjolras said. “The people need me.”

Combeferre smiled. “I know. But I just want you to live this time around.”

“I promise I’ll try,” Enjolras said quietly.

“Thank you,” Combeferre said.

His family returned shortly after and stayed until dinnertime. Combeferre hugged and kissed them all and told them to go to dinner. He told them that he loved them and that he’d be fine.

Enjolras stayed. Enjolras stayed and held his hand as Combeferre gently drifted off. His last thoughts were of Enjolras and the life Combeferre hoped he lived, of his friends somewhere out there, of his family and knowing that they’d be okay, and of his Lillian. He hoped that she was waiting for him.

Combeferre breathed his last in that hospital room, surrounded by flowers and drawings and cards—surrounded by the love of his family. Enjolras’ hand held tightly to his and Combeferre felt at peace.

He’d lived a life and he was content.  

* * *

Enjolras wasn’t wallowing; he was grieving. It was a process that he was working through.

It was methodical and patient.

Enjolras remembered the night at the hospital when Combeferre’s family had returned from dinner to find that Combeferre had passed while they had been away.

The family cried and Enjolras felt like an intruder. This wasn’t his family; he didn’t belong there. Not when Combeferre was no longer there. Enjolras had grabbed his bag and quietly made his way to the door and went out only to be stopped by Freya outside.

She had told him that he was welcome to come to her home because she didn’t want him to be alone that night. He had smiled and waved off her concern, telling her that he had some things to finish up before tomorrow and he preferred to be alone for a little while.

Freya had nodded sadly and given him a hug. She even made him promise to call if he needed anything at all.

Enjolras left her after her promise that she’d call him in a couple days when they were starting to plan the funeral because her dad would want Enjolras’ input.

He found himself outside Combeferre’s apartment before he realized that’s where he was heading. He hadn’t meant to go back here because he knew Combeferre wasn’t there and he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that, but then he realized that he had things to do there. So he went up.

Enjolras packed up the things he had kept there. He methodically went through every room in Combeferre’s apartment to remove his presence from it. It wasn’t his place anymore.

He didn’t belong there.

He glanced over at the bookshelves and debated taking a few of Combeferre’s philosophy books. They reminded Enjolras of Combeferre, _both_ Combeferres—the old one who studied philosophy and medicine and the new one who studied history but had a soft spot for his old philosophy teachings. His family probably wouldn’t miss them, but Enjolras couldn’t will his hands to move.

Combeferre wouldn’t mind, Enjolras knew, but Enjolras didn’t want his only memento of Combeferre be something he had stolen without anyone knowing it. So he had decided to wait until things settled down with Combeferre’s family before asking after the books.

The funeral had been quiet. It felt wrong to be there because this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. They were supposed to die _together_. How was Enjolras going to live this fantasy life Combeferre wanted him to live when his soulmate, his rock, his _guide_ was gone?

At the funeral, Enjolras had been struck by the thought of whether there was anyone to attend their funerals in their past life. Had they even been afforded a funeral? They had all died traitors to France, to the monarchy. They’d died alone.

Enjolras hadn’t. He had died with Grantaire, the most shocking moment in the entire series of events.

Had anyone been there to mourn them all?

Those thoughts had been plaguing Enjolras for the past couple weeks. He’d researched all he could about the June Rebellion in hopes of finding some obscure footnote or text on any of the survivors or victims who had died and the aftermath.

It was a vain hope, a vain attempt to try and convince himself that he wasn’t alone here. He was trying to believe that there were others. He was hoping that they were out there and would find him.

Combeferre seemed to think so and Enjolras wanted to believe like he had.

Enjolras had been on his way back to Combeferre’s apartment to get the last box of books. His family had called him a few days after the funeral to let him know that Combeferre had wanted him to have his collection of books— _all_ of them.

Enjolras hadn’t known what to make of that until he found an envelope with his name on it and a note that told him that these books held Combeferre’s thoughts and feelings on numerous topics. He wanted Enjolras to have them as a way to keep him grounded and centered because Combeferre’s advice was still present, even if the man himself was not.  

Combeferre had written in the margins, highlighted, took copious amounts of notes in all his books—especially the ones that made him think. He’d even left a few reading lists attached to the letter. They were suggestions to read, Combeferre’s favorites, books to skim through when he was thinking about something seriously, books to skim through when he was feeling melancholic. Combeferre had numerous lists and Enjolras hadn’t been able to look his family in the eye at all as he gathered the box and made his way back to his apartment.

There were about fourteen boxes there already and he was going to get the last one today.

After today, it would all be over.

Combeferre’s apartment wouldn’t be there anymore. It’d be like he never existed at all.

Enjolras took a breath before walking into the apartment building and started up the stairs. Each one brought with it anxiety and dread because he’d been doing a fairly good job at moving on, but this step felt too real, too much, too final. Too permanent.

But he would—he _could_ do this.

“Enjolras!” Louis greeted when he knocked on the door. “Here for the last box, yeah?”

Enjolras nodded and walked in after Louis.

“I still don’t know how you’ve been managing to carry all these back to your apartment. You could have used our mover, you know,” Louis told him. He said that every time Enjolras showed up for another box.

“It’s all right. I like the exercise,” Enjolras told him. It wasn’t’ a lie, but it was the routine he liked more than anything. He’d stop by Combeferre’s on his way home from classes and grab a box before walking back home.

He’d go home and go through the box, flipping through random pages and reading Combeferre’s little notes. When he was either finished with the box or starting to get lost in memories, he’d pack everything away and shove it in the corner by the rest of the boxes.

“It’s weird to think that someone else is going to live here, isn’t it?” Louis asked softly.

“Yes,” Enjolras agreed.

Louis smiled sadly and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Oh!” Louis said turning toward the door. “That might be the new tenant!”

Enjolras grabbed his box and followed after Louis. He’d heard him greet the person behind the door but couldn’t make anything out.

“I’m so glad you could stop by,” Louis was saying when Enjolras got a little closer. “We’ve taken almost everything that we wanted to keep. There’s just a few  miscellaneous objects still lying around. I figured I’d wait to get rid of anything else to see what you need or if you want anything.”

“That’d be great,” the man said in return. “I’m leaving my other roommate and they have most of the normal furniture.”

Louis smiled and motioned for Enjolras to come closer. “Hi. Enjolras this is the man who’s agreed to sublet from us until my father’s lease is up at the end of the year.”

“Nice to meet you,” the man said and Enjolras watched him reach out his hand. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras nearly dropped the books he was holding because there was no way this could be happening. After decades of Combeferre searching and months of Enjolras searching, they hadn’t found anyone. Yet here was Courfeyrac just as Enjolras remember standing near the door to the apartment Combeferre used to live in.

He could hear Combeferre’s quiet chuckle in his ear. _Fate is often cruel and mischievous. If you find any of the other members, it’ll be when you least expect it._

“Enjolras.” He held out his hand to shake Courfeyrac’s with. “It’s nice to meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Come say hi on [tumblr!](saras-almanac.tumblr.com)


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